Rev. Erudite Redneck, B.S., B.S., M.A., M.Div.

By The Erudite Redneck

Twenty-one years ago this fall, in the frosty after-midnight hours on a Friday night, a 20-year-old ER like to met his maker in this grove of trees, where a creek goes under an old U.S. highway a couple of miles from the house in eastern Oklahoma. The speedometer was hovering between 48 and 50 at impact. I think my car was a '78 Chrysler LeBaron. Big car. Thank goodness. The tree that stopped me from rolling into the creek upside down is right in the middle of the picture.



Here's a closeup. The scar remains. I drive by it often when I'm home visiting Mama ER and Brother ER. Totaled the car. I lost some teeth and had to have a root canal. I have a scar on my chin still. The doctor in the emergency room was annoyed because before he could sew me up, he had to pick Copenhagen out of my face flesh. I had just taken a job at a radio station. The guy who hired me actually held the announcing job open for me for 30 days until I could talk right again -- as right as any hillbilly can ever talk.

Stupidest thing I ever did came right before impact: "I think I'll lean my head against this nice, cool window." And it came after a 12-pack at least of other stupid things, consumed to and fro a high school football game 60 or so miles away.

I broke in a new youth minister that night. He was 20-something, right out of seminary. He was a city boy -- and he had no clue what he had gotten hisself into by taking a job at my church.

He's the one I called when I got out of the crumpled, bloody car and stumbled down the road to a house to a phone. He's the one who came and got me.

He's the one who drove back by the scene, with a county deputy car and highway patrol there, trying to find the driver.

He was the one who convinced said law officers that while the still-cold Coors cans glistening with condensation, reflecting the emergency lights of two cop cars, were obviously mine, that since no one else was involved in the wreck, I probably had had adequate punishment by wtecking my car and my face.

He's the one who drove me into Fort Smith, Ark., to the emergency room.

He's the one who I called, not a family member, because I was properly embarrassed and ashamed, and well, the fact is, a youth minister is decent cover for less forgiving authorities.

Hug a youth minister next time you see one -- especially if it's a city slicker who's call has sent him to a little town with a bunch of redneck kids.

Redneck Christian kids believe in Jesus -- but as a direct result, they sometimes also believe they're 10-foot tall and bullet proof. Until you grow up some, blessed assurance can make you plumb reckless.

--ER